by Gigi Pandian
The doctor didn’t notice anything odd about the scent of the book until he and his family returned to Paris. Was it his imagination, or did the book smell of more than dusty leather and mold? Perhaps one of the items in his medical bag had spilled onto it. He wasn’t usually so careless, but with a young son, he was neither as methodical nor as well rested as he once had been.
He had a small collection of alchemy books, which he kept in the midst of a much larger collection of literature and scientific volumes. Non Degenera Alchemia was unlike any other alchemy book he’d seen. The transformations pictured were all wrong. Indeed, once he was back home in Paris, the doctor was no longer sure it was a real alchemy book. The tiny bookshop had appealed to his
romantic tendencies. Perhaps he’d spent his money more on an idea than the book itself.
Now, it looked as if he wouldn’t have a chance to find out. His wife insisted he remove the book that smelled like it had been stored in a stable of animals. He couldn’t argue with her, and not only because she won every argument. In this case, he believed she was right.
He no longer knew any alchemists who might want to buy the book. He had once tried to join a secret society of alchemists in Paris, but he found them to be a very silly group of men. None of them had discovered alchemy’s secrets, but all of them delighted in deciphering riddles.
Thus, with a heavy heart, he tucked the book under his arm and set out to find a bookseller who might pay him a few francs for it. Before leaving, he sprinkled a few drops of his wife’s perfume onto the spine, hoping to mask the other odors. He hated to damage the book, but who would buy it in its current state?
His actions were for naught. A few steps out the door, the odor of the book returned. The perfume must have dispersed quickly in the dry air. Perhaps he could find a bookseller with a stuffed-up nose.
The doctor followed the path of the Seine River, the pleasant day balancing out his feeling of foolishness for his hasty purchase. As the spires of Notre Dame Cathedral came into view, the smell of farm animals dissipated, replaced with scents of the forest. So shocked was the doctor that he tripped. The book flew out of his hands, landing a few feet in front of him. He dusted off his trousers, which thankfully had not ripped, then lifted the book. Memories of childhood Christmases flooded through his mind as fragrances filled his nostrils.
Was he going crazy? Or could this be true alchemy?
Fifteen
“What’s the big deal?” Brixton said. “I was just showing the alchemy book to Ethan because he took Latin in private school before he moved here. I thought he could help translate some of the crazy stuff in there.”
“It’s a valuable antique,” I snapped. “It shouldn’t be outside. The spores from the garden will ruin it.” It was true, though that’s not what I cared about.
“Is that why it smells so weird?” Ethan asked.
“Mold?” Max chimed in. “I met a book restorer a couple of years ago, on a case. He might be able to help.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the book from Ethan’s hands. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I’m the reason you got the book back, you know,” Ethan said.
My shoulders tensed, but I kept the book firmly in my hands. I’d never asked Ethan to buy the book from the innocent rare books dealer, but I was thankful Non Degenera Alchemia hadn’t gotten caught in police red tape as I fought to have it returned to me after it was stolen in a break-in a few months ago. Ethan’s family was wealthy enough that the charge on his father’s credit card hadn’t been a problem. I wondered if he’d even noticed.
“You know I’m grateful, Ethan. And I’m working on paying you back—”
“Whatever. I just thought it would be cool to see what all the fuss was about. After all, this is the book Brix made up all those stories about. Like how it’s what brought your shy French friend to life. Nice one, Brix.”
Brixton became suddenly interested in a wild maze of mint leaves that were snaking their way up the fence. He knew why he couldn’t tell them the real reason I needed to decipher the book, but I hadn’t realized just how much he’d told his friends shortly after meeting me.
“Are we going to eat or what?” Ethan said.
I took the book inside, not trusting myself to speak to Brixton while the others were around. I knew what he was doing, and he meant well. He saw that Dorian was dying and knew that my own efforts weren’t working to save him. Since Ethan read Latin, it was a natural leap for Brixton to think Ethan might be able to help.
I trusted Brixton’s intentions, but he was fourteen. In my youth, that age was considered nearly an adult. But a teenager today wasn’t an adult. I couldn’t assume that Brixton was. I’d become too careless in what I shared with him.
He would never purposefully reveal my secret and Dorian’s, but his actions could still lead to dangerous situations. I wasn’t worried about Brixton slipping up, or even purposefully telling anyone about me and Dorian. When he did so shortly after we first met, nobody believed him. People see only what their worldview enables them to see. It’s like we’re all walking around with x-ray glasses set to different frequencies. When most people are told about a living “French gargoyle,” their imagination conjures the image of a disfigured Frenchman who was self-conscious about being seen, not a stone gargoyle who’d accidentally been imbued with a life force when an unsuspecting stage magician had read from the pages of a book he never suspected contained actual magic. The few people who’d seen Dorian move when he was hiding in plain sight assumed it was a trick of the light or that they’d had one too many pints of Portland’s exquisite beer.
True, my life would have been easier if I didn’t have to pretend I had a shy friend from France, but I didn’t fault Brixton for trying to be understood. The problem was when he acted recklessly by taking matters into his own hands. When he did so, I couldn’t anticipate all the unintended consequences.
After taking the book to the basement bookshelf, I carried statue-Dorian to the basement. Between gardening and taking long walks, I’ve never been a gym person. Honestly, the whole concept of a gym that doesn’t involve competitive sparring baffles me. Doing unproductive physical work within the confines of a dark building, as opposed to working up a sweat in nature? But as I hefted Dorian into my arms, I realized that perhaps lifting weights wasn’t such a bad idea.
I set him down at the bottom of the basement stairs, feeling a twinge in my lower back. After locking us into the basement, I told him it was safe to wake up.
“I can see that.” He stretched his neck, flapped his wings, and flexed his fingers. Moving his hips as if he was playing with an invisible hoola hoop, he frowned at his legs. They were taking longer to regain movement than the rest of him.
“You heard what happened?” I asked. He hated it when I fussed over his condition.
“Of course.” He shook his head sadly. “I can see and hear very well when I am trapped in stone. I saw the food preparations being made. Such poor cooking technique! You did not wait nearly long enough for the coals to heat properly to grill the vegetables.”
“Dorian—”
“And I have the perfect recipe for a tarragon sauce to accompany asparagus, but I cannot show myself to prepare it—”
“Dorian!”
“Yes?”
“I was talking about whether or not you heard that Brixton showed Ethan your book.”
Dorian narrowed his eyes. “You are trying to change the subject because you have never liked tarragon.”
“I like tarragon just fine, as you know full well. I don’t grow it myself because it doesn’t have as many healing properties as other herbs.”
“It is the King of Herbs, Zoe. The King of Herbs.”
“Would you please focus? I need to go back upstairs in a minute.”
“Yes, yes. I heard you confront the boys. I was confused as to why you s
topped Ethan from looking at my book.”
“He’s a kid, Dorian.”
“Yet he is the one who enabled us to get it back.”
“I remember, Dorian. I remember.” When all this was over, I needed to work on creating enough gold to pay Ethan back. “But knowing how to type your wealthy father’s credit card number is completely different from knowing how to comprehend an ancient and dangerous text.”
“Fresh eyes. Is that not the expression?”
“Yes. He’s a fresh set of eyes. But he’s fourteen. And he doesn’t know about alchemy. And did I mention he’s fourteen! Look, I really need to get back. Lock yourself in here. Don’t let anyone in. Don’t let anyone besides the two of us look at the book.”
“You show Ivan—”
“That’s different. He’s a scholar—”
The gargoyle threw his arms into the air in exasperation. “No ham,” he muttered. “No butter. No showing my own personal possession to whomever I wish.”
I sighed. “Do you really miss ham?”
He scowled at me. “No, I do not. But that is not the point.”
“I give up. Stay here, Dorian. I’ll make sure everyone leaves before too long.”
Getting rid of my guests proved more difficult than expected. It was such a gorgeous afternoon for a barbeque that my outburst hadn’t dampened the fun. When I stepped into the backyard five minutes after I’d left to deposit Dorian and his book in the basement, Max, Brixton, and Ethan were sitting in folding wood chairs in a semi-circle around the grill while Veronica flipped pieces of asparagus.
None of them seemed to notice my foul mood. Dorian was right that I was failing in my own attempts to decipher his book, so it was no wonder he agreed with Brixton that any help was welcome. A kid who’d studied a little bit of Latin wasn’t going to help. But an old alchemist was another story. Now that I knew Prometheus’s true identity, I was eager to attend the Phantasmagoria magic show that night.
Since none of my guests were picking up on my impatient mood and suggesting they depart, it was time for another approach. I picked a stalk of ragweed to force myself to sneeze repeatedly. With a red nose and eyes, it was much easier to wrap up the barbeque. With my overzealous inhalation of ragweed, I was certain I didn’t look like someone Max would want to spend the evening with, leaving me free to get ready for the magic show. I hated the continued deception. It never got easier.
I counteracted the effects of the pollen by taking a bath with chamomile bath salts, then dressed in an oversize black blouse far too long for my arms, and black leggings that left nothing to the imagination. In simple black, I hoped I’d blend into the background.
I arrived early and got myself a glass of red wine at the lobby bar. At least two dozen attendees were there ahead of me, holding drinks and chatting with friends. I smiled but didn’t strike up any conversations. I was there to see what else I could discover.
While I looked around the wood-paneled lobby, I sipped the wine. The spicy and sweet flavors of cloves, pepper, and black currants danced on my tongue. I’ve never been a big drinker, since my alchemically-trained body experiences heightened effects of everything I put into it. But I enjoy the complex characteristics in wine. And unlike coffee, which can keep me up for days, too much wine puts me to sleep. After one more sip, I abandoned the half-full wine glass on the edge of the bar.
The lobby was filling up, providing the cover I needed. Mirroring the authority of the magicians in the illustrated Persephone & Prometheus’s Phantasmagoria poster next to me, I walked purposefully to the closed doors that led to the seating area. Unfortunately, they were locked. That wasn’t uncommon, and I should have expected it. Stage magicians wouldn’t want anyone seeing their setup. I wished I knew how to pick locks as deftly as Dorian did with his claws. I had to wait until the audience was let in, which happened a few minutes later. I lingered next to the doors, so I was one of the first members of the audience ushered inside. I spotted two staff members dressed in black. One was in the sound booth, and one stood at the side of the stage, guarding the curtains from curious patrons who might be tempted to peek. To me, neither of them looked much older than Brixton.
Instead of finding my seat, I walked to the front row and caught the eye of the staffer hovering in the wings.
“This is a wonderful old theater,” I said. “Have you worked here for long?”
He grinned. “Two years this May, when I graduated with a degree in theater.”
“What about the guy in the sound booth?”
His grin faltered. “He’s been here a little longer, but I know a lot about this place. Listen, I’ve got to finish setting up, but do you want to grab a beer after the show? I can tell you all about it.”
The revealing leggings had definitely been a bad idea. I politely declined his offer. He’d told me what I needed to know. Peter and Penelope hadn’t brought their own crew with them. They were working with locals.
At this Saturday evening performance, there were a few empty seats in the theater, but not many. I was heartened to see that people were still interested in attending a classic magic show. I wished I could enjoy it.
The lights flickered, signaling that the performance would begin shortly. I was seated in the back row, and I watched the stage carefully.
The curtains opened slowly, revealing a dark stage. A glimmer of light bounced off a piece of glass. I was surprised at the sloppy setup. The night before, it hadn’t been immediately obvious that the fire was an illusion.
The magicians must have realized something was wrong too. Instead of the swell of music that had kicked off the previous night’s show, the curtains began to close again.
But at the same time, something was happening on the stage. As my eyes adjusted, I made out the form of a tall cabinet at the side of the stage. It had been there the previous night, I remembered, but it hadn’t been used. At least not in a way the audience could see. This time, though, the door of the cabinet was slowly opening. There was someone inside. He held himself stiffly, almost as if he was playing the part of a dead body.
This was definitely in keeping with the Phantasmagoria’s theme of death and resurrection, but I was surprised that the magicians would change their act so drastically between performances.
The curtains continued to close, but the heavy fabric moved slowly. I could still see the middle of the stage. And I recognized the man inside the coffinlike cabinet.
It was the Floating Lady volunteer I’d seen at the theater earlier that day. What was he doing there? Had he stayed at the theater to spy on the magicians and hidden in this cabinet, not knowing it would be used on stage? He was a little late to be sneaking out unnoticed.
Right before the curtains closed, my breath caught. Wallace Mason wasn’t trying to hide. A dark patch of red stretched across his chest.
He tumbled out of the box just as the two sides of the curtains came together with a crash. Of course it wasn’t the curtains making the noise. It was the sound of his dead body hitting the stage floor.
A murmur of voices echoed through the theater, as audience members turned to one another, presumably wondering about the strange opening of the show. Though magicians love morbid imagery, the scene on the stage had none of the previous night’s dramatic flare. This was no act.
The magician had killed again.
And without revealing who I was, there was nothing I could do about it.
Sixteen
Looking at my face in the mirror the following morning, I barely recognized myself. My skin was drawn like it had been before I began taking care of myself, and the dark circles under my eyes were even darker than the day before. A large chunk of hair fell off in my hairbrush. Even my teeth had a faint gray cast to them.
Dorian was right. Helping him was killing me.
Each time I made the Tea of Ashes, the effects lasted longer and were more
severe. Still, I was in better shape than Wallace Mason. I couldn’t get the image of his body out of my mind. I hadn’t realized he was dead until he hit the stage floor.
Though I’ve seen my share of death over the years, seeing two murder victims within three months was unsettling, to say the least.
Had Wallace Mason seen too much when he was at the theater earlier that day? If it was the magician-alchemist who had killed him to protect his secret, how could I ignore the murder? I was entangled, whether I liked it or not.
I doubted the two young crew members had anything to do with the murder. The elderly usher who took our tickets didn’t seem especially likely, either. I expected the police would dismiss them from suspicion, making the magicians the most likely suspects. Would the police figure out Peter Silverman’s true identity? It would be like the Salem Witch Trials all over again—only this time, the accusations against me would be true.
As an innocent sixteen-year-old I’d been accused of witchcraft, because of my affinity to plants. I could work with plants in ways that most people couldn’t, both in coaxing them to grow and in extracting their mysterious properties. People are frightened of what they don’t understand. It was their fear that had driven me away from them and into the arms of alchemists. Now I had become something that people might truly have reason to fear, not because I would harm anyone—I had spent my life trying to do the opposite—but because I had unlocked powerful secrets that could be used for both good and evil.
Breathe, Zoe.
Now that I’d gotten a few hours of sleep, I began to wonder about my hasty assumptions. Had I jumped to the right conclusion? Was the magician involved? I was looking at only half of the picture—the magician-alchemist, not the man who’d been killed. The dead man’s life would be examined by the police. The police would look into Wallace Mason’s life and follow the trail wherever it led.
